A not so happy ending
by Vivien99
Summary: Being a Spaniard in France wasn't simple in the 17th century. Being a musketeer with Spanish roots wasn't much better. A few men let out their rage on Aramis. Be ready for a lot of pain, whump and angst. The title says it all..
1. Chapter 1

_So this is my second fanfiction I wrote in English. I'm still happy about reviews and help to improve my language! I hope you like it._  
_

Being a Spaniard in France wasn't simple in the 17th century. Being a musketeer with Spanish roots wasn't much better. Most of the time Aramis had no real problem with dealing with stupid comments, but the past few months it got worse. Then he may have had a few incidents a year because of his spanish mother, but they increased sharply. Nearly every day he has to deal with discussions, which are not rarely ending in fights. The people, who once supported Emilie, just got more angry about the Spanish after she left them. Them alone wouldn't be a problem for anyone, but they left their camp to get back to Paris, where they infect the half town with their conspiracy theories.

Just last night Aramis had a fight in one of his favorite taverns. He got away without more than a few bruises, but his opponent looked much worse as Porthos dragged the musketeer out of the bar. Aramis usually tries to stay calm and ignore the people, but this guy just went to far. He not only insulted Aramis, but called his mother a _whore_ and many other things. After days of keeping calm, Aramis couldn't hold it anymore.

The marksman sighs as he leaves his room. It could be such a wonderful day, but what happened the last weeks make it hard for him to enjoy the sun. He never understood and never will. Why do people hate each other so much? He understands the hate for criminals, for a man who killed your family. But this is so different. This hate is blind and brainless. How someone can be bad just because of his ancestry? As a soldier he knows better than anyone else, that a lot of French men are killed by the Spanish, of course. Nevertheless, the French also kill the Spanish. And they don't kill because of hate or because they want to. They are soldiers and they do what they are told. The only ones that could be hated are the royals, the politicians and everyone who is save behind his walls and towers. Because this are the ones who are responsible for the hunger, poverty and deaths. No one else should be punished for what is happening at the moment. No soldier, no musketeer, no Spaniard. Not Aramis.

Aramis tries to get rid of the thoughts. He can't change the minds of the people anyway.

The sun burns down on him, as Aramis walks through the streets of Paris by noon. The musketeers are searching the man who tried to break in the palace this morning. Fortunately he hadn't hid his face, so half of the regiment knows how he looks. Still, he ran away, and now – hours alter –could be gone forever. Searching for a lonely man in Paris was like searching for a needle in a haystack. To have at least a chance in finding him, they separated in small groups. Most of these also decided to split up. Even a single musketeer should be able to arrest this man.

Every now and then Aramis asks residents if they know the man, who he tries to describe as good as he can. Just now he talks with a woman in his native language, since she doesn't seem to understand French. At first she seems very eager to help the musketeer, but she also has to disappoint him. Tipping the top of his head, Aramis wanders off.

The feeling of being observed, lets him freeze. Slowly he looks left and right before turning around. Nothing. He's probably getting paranoid, he thinks to himself as he starts walking again. Aramis just turns in an empty alley, as he heard the familiar sound of a gun being pulled. Intuitive he grabs his musket, not pulling it out his holster, before he slowly turns his head into the direction the sound came from. A young man, probably a gascon – who reminds him a lot of d'Artagnan – has his gun aimed at the musketeer. _It wouldn't be a problem killing him firs,_ Aramis thinks. Just by seeing how the boy holds the weapon, he knows that he would be the first one who pulls the trigger. But something stops the marksman from doing this. He won't kill a young man, without giving him a chance.

"Look – when you put than thing down, we can talk, okay? It's simple : You don't mean to harm me – I don't harm you." Aramis smiles slightly, trying to calm his opponent. By now Aramis faces the other man completely, never letting his hand go from his own gun. The boy seems scared, sweat drippling down his face as he holds the gun shaky. His eyes wonder off of Aramis to something behind the soldier. Before he has the chance to react his arms are grabbed and pulled behind his body. Aramis tries to escape the strong hands, but doesn't stand a chance. As he knows that his arms will be useless in this fight, he starts kicking the men behind him. At some time he apparently hit the crotch of one of them. Taking advantage of the unwariness, Aramis can get free, just in time to avoid a blow into his face. The Spaniard manages to pull his sword, getting the men off guard. Clearly they haven't thought this through. Aramis just pushed the metal into the shoulder of one of his opponents, as a numb feeling spreads in his thigh and he hears the shot of gun. Shocked he looks down, realizing what just had happened. Now he was the one who was surprised. The two men could easily overwhelm him now, throwing his sword far away.

Aramis hisses in pain as the numb feeling changes to a burning pain. His leg feels like it's tearing up, as he is pushed down to the ground. A knee against his back holds him in place, as he tries to fight again. Without a chance of getting free, his hands are getting bound behind him and a scarf is pushed into his mouth and restrained with another one around his head. Protesting against his gag, Aramis is dragged into a nearby house.

Roughly the men lead him into a nearly empty room, not caring about his injurie. He is bound to the supporting pillar in the middle of the room. The gag is removed and Aramis tries to catch his breath before he speaks to the biggest man, who seems to be their leader. "Why are you doing this? I'm a musketeer, you bring yourself into a lot of trouble. The king-" A hard smack across his face interrupts the marksman.

"Stop lying, bastard! We know who you are. _What_ you are. A spanish pig, a spy."

"I'm not a spy, I'm not even Spanish! I'm French, I'm a musketeer, here to keep the French king save." Once again the gag is shoved into his mouth. "We've heard you on the streets. Speaking spanish with this whore. Besides... look at you. It's not possible to not see it."

Aramis sighs, even if he was able to – it makes no sense to discuss with people like him. They hear without listening. His gaze wanders off to the boy, who shot him earlier. He stands behind the two men, shaking and scared _. Maybe he is forced to do it, maybe I can talk to him later._

"Can I start now?" The other men asks the leader eagerly. "Of course. But remember our plan."

The leader and the boy walking off, leaving Aramis alone with the other one. His nose is crooked and a long scar across his cheek makes him just more intimidating. Still, Aramis tried to not show any sign of fear or the pain he is in.

A hard stroke into his stomach lets the air in his lungs leave. He desperately tries to catch his breath before a few more blows hit him.

Meanwhile the other musketeers are meeting in the garrison again. Porthos looks through the crowd and starts getting nervous as he can't find Aramis.  
"He will be here any minute," Athos insures. So Porthos decides to wait a while, like d'Artagnan suggested.

After one hour it is too much for Porthos. Aramis doesn't come too late without a good reason. D'Artangnan and Athos agree to go to the part of Paris, where Aramis was supposed to look for the searched.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis is barely conscious as the man is finally stopped by their leader. "It's enough, Philippe. For the moment." A sigh of relief leaves the marksman as he can finally relax his muscles. The rope around his body is now the only thing holding him up. He doesn't know how long he was alone with Philippe, but it was clearly too long. The left side of his face is swollen, the sight on the eye on this side, blurry. A feeling of nausea comes up, the musketeer has to concentrate on not throwing up, while every breath causes a sharp pain in his lungs. The feeling in his leg is long gone. It just feels like a heavy, lifeless weight.

It's hard for Aramis too focus on the happenings around him, while his head pounds loudly. He surely has lost a lot of blood. As if they were miles away he hears the two older men talking. "He has to live a bit longer, I won't let him go without suffering enough for what he has done." "We can't let him suffer more, without him dying. Look at him."

Seeing his chance of making time, until his brothers will find him, Aramis lifts his head slowly. "When you … want me to live ... you have to stop the bleeding," he muffles against the gag. With a questioning look the three captors look at him, only understanding what he tried to say, as Aramis nods at his leg. Philippe seems to think that the musketeer is totally insane, but the leader seems to be more intelligent. "Henri, go get something to bandage him." The boy nods fast, before he runs out of the room.

Even though Aramis knows that a bandage won't be enough to stop the bleeding completely, it was more than he could have ever hoped for. It would give him at least a few hours more. While waiting for the gascon to return, the leader kneels before Aramis, to have a look at his wound. Vicious smiling, he puts his thumb onto it and presses hard. The musketeer can't help to let out a scream of pain. "Stop being such a wuss." Aramis breaths hard against the gag, which prevents him from getting as much air as he needs at the moment. "Jacques, I've only found this," Henri comes back in, holding up a few towels and a bottle of wine. The leader, Jacques, nods satisfied, while standing up. "That should do it. Take care of his leg, than let him rest." The older men leave the room, letting Aramis alone with the boy. Hope fills the marksman.

Insecure, Henri walks up to him. As Aramis tries to speak he looks at him confused, before he slowly loosens the gag. "If you scream I will put it back in and let you bleed out." It should have been a warning but came out as a request. Aramis nods slightly, relieved as he finally can breath free. "Thank you. This things are nasty."  
The boys smiles mildly, before kneeling down. "This will hurt. Don't scream." Aramis tries his best as the wine sterilizes the wound, biting his lip bloody. After the wound is cleaned, Henri wraps the towel around the musketeers thigh. "Why are you doing this?"  
Confused, Henri stands up. "You would die without it." "No, I mean all of this. Why did you capture me. Why are you doing all of this to me?"

The boy seems unsure whether he should answer this or not. He walks over to a table, where water and bread stand. "You're Spanish and a soldier. It's obvious that you're a spy. And because of people like you, we die." He pours some water into a glass, before returning to Aramis. "As I've said, I'm French. I grew up here and I will die here, in the service for the king. I'm no spy and above all I'm not responsible for any deaths."

The gascon shakes his head, holding the glass to Aramis' lips. "They told me that you would deny it. I can't hold it against you. I mean you think you could save your life through it."  
Aramis takes a few sips, before leaning his head against the wood behind him. "You're young, Henri. Don't throw your life away like this. The musketeers will find us, and they will arrest all of you. You won't see daylight ever again, at best at your way to the gallow."

The boy seems scared, rethinking his choices. "But you could save yourself. Help me out of here and you will be a free man. You can go back to your family and live a normal and long live." Silence fills the room, a few seconds Henri really thinks about what Aramis has said. Then, a look of fury lies on his face. "My family was killed by your Spanish friends."  
Without letting Aramis reply, Henri runs out of the room.

Great.

It's already getting dark outside, as the musketeers meet again in the garrison. No one of them has found any sign of Aramis. Athos speaks out what all of them already thought. "He won't disappear just like that. Something must have happened to him… I will talk to Treville, he shall give us a few more men."

Just half an hour later twenty musketeers walked and rode out of the garrison, searching for their lost brother. When they don't find him, no one could. Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan stay together, searching again in the area where Aramis was last seen.

"Jacques, we have to go! Musketeers are all over the town. I heard them talking about a lost brother." Aramis head shots up, now listening carefully to the conversation in the next room.

"We'll take him with us and out of Paris."

"And how are we supposed to that?"

"I already have an idea. Don't worry."

All three of his captors rush into the room where Aramis is held hostage. Philippe and Henri cut his ropes, tying up his hands in front of him now. Wouldn't Philippe hold him, Aramis would fall. His not injured leg feels unsteady under his weight. Henri shoves the gag into his mouth again, before tying his feet and knees together, while Jacques rolls in a barrel. "Get him in here."

Aramis eyes widen, as he understands how he's supposed to be transported. With all the strength he's left he struggles against the strong grip, talking against his gag. Without being noticed, Phillippe shoves Aramis into the barrel. As he tries to get out of it again, Jacques puts the lid back on. The marksman tries to open it, until he hears nails being hammered in. Fear overtakes him, as he's left in the dark barrel with only a small hole for fresh air. He shouts as loud as he can, as the barrel is turned on the side and rolled. Aramis knocks his head a few times. The huddled position causes an unbearable pain in his leg.

He feels how he is heaved onto something, most likely a cart, before he starts to lose consciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis awakens just in time, as the cart comes to a stop. Hope, that he will soon be freed out of this horrible position, fills the marksman. Even though he has just awakens, he already feels his body searching for the soothing darkness. He tries to focus his eyes and thoughts onto something, to force his brain to stay conscious just a while longer. Still, the stuffy air, the darkness, and the pain are working against his will. His eyes flutter shut, as the barrel starts to roll again. Aramis is on full alert now again, his body forgetting about the rest it needs. He protects his head with his tied arms as much as he can, not wanting to hit it even more. Though, his arm don't protect him from the hard landing, as the barrel falls from the cart onto the ground – shattering into a hundred pieces. Aramis grunts in pain, slowly turning on his back, stretching his abused limbs as much the ropes allow him. Careful he opens his eyes, just to press them together the next moment. The light is just too much. He waits a few seconds before opening his eyes again, slowly and facing the ground.

After Aramis has regained his senses more or less back, he is dragged up roughly. The musketeer takes in his surroundings, but can't figure out where they are. Everywhere he looks, the marksman sees nothing other than grass and a few trees. The houses of Paris not even close to being seen. The sun is already rising again, letting Aramis wonder how long they rode. Half being pulled, half limping, his captors lead him to a few rocks, rising out of the ground. There, he is pushed down, falling hard, not able to catch himself. Jacques rips the gag from his mouth, standing in front of the musketeer, so he can look down on his prisoner. "You know, I wish we would have had more time together. Unfortunately your little friends seem to want to disturb our party. This is a pity, isn't it?" Jacques lips curl into a vicious grin, while kicking Aramis in his ribs. As more kicks follow, the marksman tries to curl up together – protect the most important parts. Indeed, Henri and Philippe are reacting fast, grabbing his arms and tying them around the rock. Now, vulnerable, Aramis has to take the kicks and hits, until his head falls onto his chest weakly.

Clearly not having enough, Jacques pulls out an old, rusty knife. He grabs the cheeks of the injured man, forcing him to look him in the eyes. Aramis tries everything to look as strong as possible, failing miserable. Besides the wounds he had already carried, new bruises stain his body. His lip is open – bleeding, dark spots already forming on his temple. Furthermore, the medic is very sure at least two of his ribs are broken by now. Breathing hurts even more than before, burning him from the inside. He wonders if one rib maybe bruised his lungs.

"Look at me, bastard. My face shall be the last one, you'll ever see again. But don't worry, I won't kill you." Confused Aramis opens his mouth, but not bringing out more than a scratchy noise. "Save your breath, you'll need it." Slapping him one last time with the backside of his hand, Jacque walks away. Philippe follows his leader back to the cart, which stand a good hundred meters away. _One last chance._ Looking as a lost, abandoned and hurt puppy, he catches Henri's gaze. "C'mon boy, you don't really want to this, do you? Letting a man die alone out here like a coward?"

"At least I'm not a traitor." Henri starts to open Aramis boots. "You won't need them anymore, and they're nice." He explains the confused man, making him grunt in pain as he pulls off the boot off the injured leg. "Henri, think about it a last time. Do it for your own sake. I saw the fear in your eyes as you shot me. You just wounded me – still you were so much afraid. Killing a man or leaving him for death, it isn't easy. Believe me. You won't be able to forget this day ever again, it will haunt you in your sleep. Do you want to live with this burden all your life - if you're not arrested?"

Once again, the gascon thinks about Aramis words. The musketeer sees the insecurity dancing in the boys eyes. "Not that I say I will help you – but if I would do it – what are you thinking how I'm supposed to do it? As you may have noticed, Philippe and Jacques are stronger than me, and they have weapons."

"Just open the rope. Just give me a chance getting to a nearby village."

"Hurry up, boy! We're hungry!" Jacques and Philippe are already mounting up.

Henri looks to them, then back to Aramis. "I will regret this," he mumbles as he falls to his knees – cutting the rope fast, before hitting Aramis into the face. "'Coming! Just had to teach him a lesson." Without looking back, Henri runs off, letting Aramis to his own.

"We have searched every inch in whole Paris! It's not possible, he can't just be … away!" Porthos clenches his hands to fists, the fear taking hold of him. Athos takes a few sips of wine, before he empties his glass completely. "Maybe he isn't in the town anymore."

d'Artagnan raises an eyebrow questioning. "And how is he supposed to leave it, when we had soldiers looking for him on every way out?" Athos shrugs, he may not know how, but he knows it's the only possible solution. "Then let's got, find him! If he's still out there somewhere, we need to get to him as fast as we can!" Porthos is already on his way to his horse, as Athos raises. "And where do you want to start the search? He could be miles away."

"How about sending search teams into the villages around? Maybe someone has seen him there." D'Artagnan suggest.  
This seems to be the only chance for them.

Aramis waits until his captors are out of sight, before standing up – using the rock as support. He stands awkwardly, still holding on onto the rock, while his injured leg is stretched out. He looks around, trying to find anything that could help him. No single house comes into his view, so he decides his only chance is to follow the cart back to Paris. Carefully letting go off his supports, he limps a few meters, before falling down. The marksman curses, before getting up again.

He had fallen at least ten times, and got up again, until he rests against a tree. Aramis looks back to the rocks, he haven't even made a mile in the last hour. The sun stands high on the sky by now, burning is unprotected head and skin. He has to make it. Cursing again, this time in Spanish, he starts walking again. With the help of the trees, it is a bit easier. Every then and now he rests against them, taking them as a support. After hours, what it seemed, he collapses onto the ground. The cuts on his feet, from walking without boots are his smallest problem. His injured leg and ribs are burning, while the throbbing in his head starts to get harder with every step. He hasn't drank in nearly a day. But then, a few houses come into his view. A village. It isn't far away, maybe twenty more minutes. He can do it. With new strength, Aramis gets up again, a weak smile on his lips.

"Look who we got there!" The marksman turns to the horses, coming up to him. Fear overtakes him, as he tries to run. He never had a chance. A kick into the back brings him to the ground, before Jacques gets off his horse. A single tear slips from Aramis eye, as he feels a knee against his lower back, realizing that there are only two of his captors. As he sees his boots, which Henri took from him earlier, on Philippe's feet, he knows. He knows that they've killed the boy, because he gave him a chance to live - a small one, but one. They've killed Henri because of Aramis. This is the moment where his body wants to stop fighting. But his mind just awakens. With an unknown strength, Aramis turns around, grabbing the leg holding him down. He throws Philippe to the ground, quickly grabbing his knife. Knowing, that he won't be able to stand up, Aramis robs away, holding the knife warningly. Jacques laughs, kicking against the marksman arm, then into his face. The last bit of the honor, which he had left, Aramis loses as his back crashes onto the ground. And with this, he loses his hope.

Neither physically, nor mental, he has strength to fight against the men pulling him up again. They tie him onto the tribe of a rotten tree. "This time, no one will save you, _Spanish bastard."_ Aramis doesn't look after the men riding away. He just closes his eyes and starts mumbling his prayers. He prays for his brothers, for Henri, for the queen and her son. He prays until he loses consciousness.

"I haven't seen your friend, but in the early morning a few men came through. They had a cart with them, some barrels on it. They were strange… had weapons, and one of them a scar on his face. A boy was with them, seeming scared… I was too." The hostess tells, while filling up the skins of the three musketeers. It was not much, but it was more than they've got until now.

"Thank you, Madame." Athos stands up, revealing a small smile. The three soldiers are just about heading into the direction, the woman have said the strange men rode, as the hostess calls them to stop. Her finger points at two men, approaching to them. "This are the men! The men who came in the morning."

Not even two seconds after, Porthos and d'Artagnan have pulled their guns. The strangers don't seem to be too surprised, pulling out guns as well. Athos is the one, who shoots. The bullet hits Philippe into the shoulder, nothing deadly, but enough to throw him off his horse. Being near enough now, the musketeers change to their swords.

The battle doesn't last long, though. Soon Athos brings Philippe down, holding the tip of his sword onto the other mans throat. "Now tell me, where is Aramis."

The marksman awakens slowly, head still throbbing hard. His vision is blurry, as he tries to remember where he was. The village. Knowing, that he is already on borrowed time, he tries one last time to save his last. Aramis starts screaming for help as loud as he can. But it's too far. No one will ever hear him. A few minutes later all his left strength is gone, his voice nothing more than whisper. The musketeer once again starts praying, facing the inevitable. He never was scared of dying. He maybe haven't made peace with himself yet, but he knows that god will be mercifully. It's not fear that bothers him. It's the feeling of shame. He always thought about dying in a battle, while he saves the life of others. But never would he have thought about dying like this. Tied up to a tree, helpless, vulnerable and in so much pain. He will probably rot here a few day, until a farmer will finally find his lifeless body. He may will be buried. Without a name, no one else at the funeral than the pastor himself. His brothers will never know. They will think he ran away, let them alone without a goodbye. No, he never wanted to die _like this._

The sun burns down on him even more, his skin already red. Sweat drops off his face, the last fluid left in his body leaving him, too. At least he doesn't feel the pain anymore. His limbs are numb, his head fuzzy. He now prays, switching the languages without noticing. Half sentences and words without sense. He just mumbles, until he feels save. Until he feels ready. Ready to go, ready to give up. He don't want to, he never was someone who gave up easily. But Aramis is not only a soldier, he also is a medic and a man of god. He knows that his body has already given up a few hours ago, his mind is the only thing keeping him alive. And he feels, that this is what god had planned for him. He don't know why, he never will. But he will let go, in god's sake.

"There! At the tree!" d'Artagnan jumps off his horse, running up to the unconscious man. Porthos and Athos close to him. He puts his fingers onto the musketeers throat, desperately searching for a pulse. "His heart beats, but just very slow…"  
The men free Aramis off his bonds, before lying him down carefully.

"He will live, won't he? It's Aramis." None of the soldiers answers Porthos question.

Only god will know.

 _So the next chapter will probably be the last one. Let's pray to god, that Aramis will live!_

 _Or pray to me…_


	4. Chapter 4

Athos looks over Aramis, searching for the most dangerous injuries. The body of their beloved brother is covered with countless bruises and cuts. The left side of his face is barely recognizable, it's just one swollen, blue and green bump. D'Artagnan can't look at his fallen brother like that – no he hasn't fallen yet, his heart still beats -, so he turns away, holding Aramis' hand carefully. Except for the cuts on his wrists, caused by the ropes around them, and a few bruises on his knuckles – he probably fought for his life with them - his hands seem to be the most unharmed.

"His leg." Athos rips the marksman's trousers apart, revealing a poorly wrapped bandage, which is soaked through with blood. A lot blood. D'Artagnan fights against nausea, while Porthos tries not to be overwhelmed by his feelings. He has to be here for Aramis, he has to be strong for him. Athos is the only one who stays calm – at least viewed from the outside. He also removes the bandage, taking a look at the hole that gapes in the musketeers thigh. The wound is clearly infected. If Aramis hasn't died because of the loss of blood by now, he surely has to fight against the fever, to which infections often lead. The swordsman pushes the thoughts of Aramis dying back and focuses onto the wound again. "The bullet is still in him. We have to get it out and stitch him, before he loses any more blood. Porthos you help me with that, hold him down if he moves. D'Artagnan-" the young gascon is torn from his dark thoughts by his captains voice "Go, get us the medical supplies from the horses. I would suggest to put them into hot water first, as Aramis always does, but I don't think we have enough time for that – besides the wound is infected already, anyway."

D'Artagnan does as he has been told and kneels beside his brother again, the supplies in his hands. Athos changes one last look with Porthos, who tightens his grip onto Aramis leg and torso, before he pulls the bullet out. The man under him stays unmoved, which may makes the operation easier, but his brothers more concerned. Athos stitches the wound and puts a new dressing around it.

"His head bleeds," Porthos notices. The large man settles himself behind Aramis, laying his head carefully into his lap. "He probably has a concussion, too," d'Artagnan, who has apparently caught himself again, adds. Athos clears the small wound with alcohol, before wrapping a dressing around it too. The leader sits back and lets out a frustrated sigh – an emotion he doesn't show often. "I fear we can't help him anymore. We have to get him to the next medic as fast as possible… and pray."

"You're talking like he's dying!" Porthos wants to stand up, but remembers Aramis' head on his lap in time. His voice shakes, as he looks at Athos with a mixture of fury and fear. "Because he is! But fighting won't help him now. We have to get him away from here." Athos turns around, walking to his horse. "Yu two stay with them, I will get us a cart from the village and inform the physician."

It feels like hours, until Athos returns. Aramis hasn't shown any more signs of life, then before. Wouldn't his skin be burned and red from the sun, he surely would be as pale as a ghost. His chest is rising and falling, but so slightly you might not notice it. "You'll live, mon ami. You're the strongest man I know and you'll fight. You hear me? You fight until you're back with us again, or else I'll… I will… screw it, I will kill you if you die." Porthos carefully strokes through the dark hair, which is hart and sticky because of the blood.

As Athos stops the cart in front of the three men, d'Artagnan and Porthos carefully lift Aramis onto it.  
Fortunately it takes them only a few minutes until they hold at the inn, where they found Aramis' captors before. The physician, an old man with grey hair and a crutch, already waits for them at the door. "Bring him inside. We prepared everything." As fast and gingerly as possible, the musketeers carry their injured brother to a comfortable looking bed.

Athos tells the medic which injuries they've found and how they treated them. After that, the old man, Rousseau, decides to leave the bullet wound and the one on the head as they are. "I will look to them when I've treated the rest."

The wife of the owner of the inn, Madame Fontaine, brought them three plates of bread, cheese and ham and glasses of wine. "You must be hungry." D'Artagnan smiles softly and thanks her, before he explains that he will eat later. The others agree with him. Their body may be starving, but none of them feels the hunger. All of them only have eyes for their brother. Two hours, they just sit and wait. Not saying one word, everyone's lost in his own thoughts.

 _It's probably impossible to live after losing so much blood. It would be a wonder, if he could not only survive this but also the infection. On the other hand… Aramis is a walking wonder._ Athos thinks.

D'Artagnan feels so helpless, so useless. _It won't be easy but he can make it. We still have faith. He had the luck on his side so many times, why not now? He can make it. Hopefully._

 _Athos behaves like Aramis is dying. This is nothing for him. He is strong, stronger than anyone of us. He has survived much worse, this is nothing more than a few bruises. He will live, like he always does. It's Aramis._ Porthos lies to himself.

"I've cleared his wounds and gave him something against the pain. He needs rest, but when you have to chance to wake him up – do it. He needs to drink, and eat if possible. It seems he is strongly dehydrated. Moreover he has a concussion and a heatstroke. Change the wet towels on his legs and his head every hour." Rousseau stands up, holding onto his crutch.

"But he will live?" D'Artagnan asks hopefully. The medic sighs, looking at the injured man. "I fear, that's something only god himself can say. We have to wait. He fights hard, but I can't assure you that he will win this time."

So, there's nothing else the musketeers can do, as to change the towels every hour and try to wake Aramis. Porthos and d'Artagnan are sleeping in their chairs, as Athos has first watch. It's dark outside since hours, it probably will be morning soon. Athos has emptied his, and the glasses of the others, as he watches the unconscious man. He sees the pain on his face, the sweat a sign for the fight he is taking. Athos is just about to change watch with Porthos, as a quiet moan takes his attention. "Aramis? Aramis do you hear me? Aramis, you have to wake up." A second later the swordsman kneels beside the bed, shaking Aramis slightly. "Mon Ami, are you with us?"

Porthos and d'Artagnan slowly awaken through the unusual sounds. They follow the example of their leader, kneeling beside the bed and talking to Aramis. Another moan, pained and scratchy, gives them hope again. "C'mon, open your eyes."

Aramis lips part, as he is trying to say something, but close shortly after. The gascon takes the glass of water, holding it onto the marksmans lips. "You must be thirsty, 'Mis."

Aramis body begs for water, still he isn't able to recognize the chance to drink. For him, it's nothing but darkness and blurry sounds from far away, never reaching him. His body feels heavy, pain overwhelms him. He can't think, he can't react. He just feels the pain.

The night and the morning long it's always the same. Changing the towels, trying to wake him. Hearing something and hoping he will finally be able to drink something. Frustration, when Aramis can't free himself from the darkness.

The physician comes once again. He just looks at the wounds shortly, then feeling Aramis temperature. "He is burning up, the infection has taken over his body. I would like to give him something against the fever and the pain, but last time he nearly choked onto it. I don't think his body is able swallow by itself. He is too far away. If he doesn't awake within the next night… He has to drink or he doesn't stand a chance."

So another day passes, in which the musketeers has to fear for their brother. No one rests, no one eats. They don't talk much either.

By noon Aramis starts to have nightmares. He mumbles words in French, latin and Spanish – hopelessly searching for help. His breath fastens and his hands clench to the sheets. "Help, por favor." Sweat drips from his forehead, while he lives through the horrific dreams. His brothers can't do more, than to be there, hold him and talk to him – but Aramis doesn't seem to notice. He is caught in his own, cruel world. Alone and helpless.

"Dejame morir, por favor. Let me go." These words rip Porthos heart apart. He can't stand to see his friend so hurt and so lost. He can't see him suffering like this. But neither can he release him from the pain. He can't do what his brothers wants, he can't let him go. He won't.

The night breaks in, and Aramis calms down. They don't know if it's a good or bad sign.  
As the sun rises, none of them has slept. They couldn't wake him up. They shaked him, screamed at him, they poured cold water of him and still, Aramis didn't seem to notice.

He was caught in his world. He lived through so much pain, again. He left his mother, he was beaten by his father, he heard that his _mama_ has died. He went to the army, then to the musketeers – he went to Savoy. He saw Adele, Isabelle and Anne. He held the Dauphin before he was slaughtered just in front of his eyes. He was in a prison cell, Rochefort was there too, torturing him. Rochefort's face changed to Grimaud's. He was kidnapped by two criminals and an innocent boy. He was alone.

Now, Aramis stands in the darkness, as it slowly lightens up. His _mama_ smiles at him loving. Adele and Isabelle appear beside her. And then, twenty-one fallen brothers. Marsac at the very front. All of them smile at him, calling out for him. "Come to us, Aramis. Come with us, brother." "Oh, _Renè,mì hijo, ven conmigo."(my son, come with me)_

He reaches out for them.

„Proficiscere, anima christiana, de hoc mundo,  
In nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, qui te creavit,  
In nomine Iesu Christi Filii Dei vivi, qui pro te passus est,  
In nomine Spiritus Sancti, qui in te effusus est"  
The priest leays his hands onto the head of the musketeer, then draws a cross on his forehead. Porthos tries to breath, but it seems the air is gone with Aramis.

"Hodie sit in pace locus tuus  
et habitatio tua apud Deum in sancta Sion,  
cum sancta Dei Genitrice Virgine Maria,  
cum sancto Ioseph, et omnibus Angelis et Sanctis Dei." D'Artagnan holds back a tear, biting on his lip. He shakes, all his strength seems to be gone with Aramis.

"Ad auctorem tuum,  
qui te de limo terrae formavit, revertaris.  
Tibi itaque egredienti de hac vita sancta Maria,  
Angeli et omnes Sancti occurrant. […]  
Redemptorem tuum facie ad faciem videas  
et contemplatione Dei potiaris in saecula saeculorum." Athos looks at his fallen brother, not even he can hide the pain.

"Amen" they all mumble together.

The priest lays a crucifix into Aramis hands, folding them onto his chest, before two men carefully wrap his body into a white sheet. They bring him to the cart, which is waiting outside. He has to go home.

On their way home, Porthos stares at his brother endlessly, as if this could bring his soul back. "It's not possible… it is Aramis. He doesn't die that easily." It's the first words one of the musketeers has spoken, since the morning hours in which the medic declared Aramis dead. Athos remains silent, concentrating on the road.  
"He fought harder than anyone else could have. No one would… no one would have lived as long as he has." D'Artagnan can't hold back the tears any longer. All of this is so surreal, so impossible, but still it's happening. They are heading back to Paris, with the corpse of their brother beside them. It's not fair.

As they ride into the garrison a dozen musketeers run up to them. Shock, pain, sorrow lies on every single face. "Not Aramis", they mumble. "How?" Is the question everyone is asking. "Why?" Everyone wants to know.

But the truth is, no one knows. No one but Aramis and god himself.

Constance is the one who has to tell the queen. Neither of the remaining _les inseparabales_ , leaves the church, where Aramis' body lays in a black coffin.  
Anne cries, prays, and presses her son – Aramis son – against her chest, holding him if this could bring her lover back.

The next day they stand around the grave. They, means: the musketeers in their blue leather uniforms. Treville, in the clothes of the first minister. Constance with Anne, who sneaked out of the palace, dressed as a simple housewife. A few women no one really knows. That's it. That's his friends, his family. That are the people who loved him and who he loved. The priest reads a few verses of the bible, before giving the word to the crowd.

Treville is the first one to find his voice again. He tries to remain composed, still you can hear his voice shake slightly. "I'm happy that I can say that I've known Aramis not only like the brave musketeer and good soldier, but as the great man he was. I've never seen someone as him. He was strong, lived through horrors none of us can understand. He was loyal, to france, to god, to the king and the musketeers. And he loved with every piece of his heart. Not only woman, but every single one of his brothers."

Athos steps forward next. "He was the best marksman this land has ever seen, but also a great medic and soldier. But besides this, he was selfless. He put everyone above himself, caring more for others than for himself."

D'Artagnan takes a deep breath, before he continues. "As I came here a few years ago, I knew nothing. But Aramis… he was the one who taught me what it's about to be a musketeer. Of course, something I knew. Fighting, shooting. But it is much more. It is about being a soldier, but also a protector for the ones in need. You need to be one with your brothers. Don't ask too much questions, but know everything. Be always prepared. You have to know a bit about stitching. You need to be brave. And you need to understand people and their twisted minds. You need to see the good sides in them, as you the bad ones. I learned a lot from him, not only because he was a great teacher – but because he was a musketeer, how it should be."

Porthos clenched to his hat, trying to remain composed, as he talks. He stares down at the grave, sighing. "This should never have happened. Not to Aramis. I don't know anyone who was as brave and kind as him. I don't know anyone who smiled as much as him. I don't care how skilled he was as a soldier or a medic. I would've loved him as much as now if he wouldn't have been such a great musketeer. Because there was so much more to love about him. I mean – everyone here knows Aramis – how could you not love him?" A few gentle smiles appear on the faces, grief still in their eyes. "What I wanted to say is… that I will miss him a lot – I already do. I will miss his laugh and his stupid comments. I will miss his love for women, he wasn't supposed to have. I will miss the strength, he had on every day. Aramis went through hell a several times and still he didn't show it. I know, of course, his soul was more bruised than he had shown – but he didn't show. He didn't show, to be strong for us. Because he didn't want us to suffer, I believe that's because he wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to save others from suffering. That's just how he was. I remember one time… he was wounded in a fight – had a bullet in his arm – still he first looked after every other musketeer, after every small bruise. Because he cared so much for others.  
I will miss you, Aramis, mon Ami. You will always have a place in our hearts. You will live on in our memories and all the stories we will tell about you. You'll never be forgotten."

A thoughtful silence lies above the graveyard. No one has anything else to say, but Anne. But she remains silent. She can't risk her live, the live of her Dauphin and with that the only thing she has left from Aramis. In a silent prayer she send her thoughts to Aramis.

Oh, mi amor. You was already praised as the good soldier you were. I admired that on you, too. But I'm sure you know that. But I loved you for the man you was, not for the soldier. I loved you for your kindness. I loved you, because you showed me that life is so much more than responsibility and duty. It is about loving. And you loved. You not only loved me, I know that. But I don't care, because your heart was great enough to love every single person on this planet. You loved the musketeers, as they were your brothers. You loved france and god. Oh you were so faithful, I always admired the god you had. He was good and kind, he helped and was merciful. You never saw it, but you chose a god who was just like you. And you loved me and Louis. I wish, we could've had more time. I wish I could've ran away with you and our son. I wish you could be his father and make him to a good man, as you. But don't be scared. I will make sure to tell him stories about the reckless and brave musketeer, about the man who loved to love. He will admire you just as much as I do.  
I hope you watch over us. I know you do. You always did, and you always will. Thank you for giving me a purpose in life. Thank you for showing me how to love and for loving me. Thank you for being you. Te amo, mi amor. Serás recordado por siempre."

 _So this was the second fanfiction I wrote in english and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. It was not easy for me to let Aramis die, but I just thought I had to do it. In the most stories the musketeers suffer a lot pain, are always near death but never die. I think this was only realistic and needed at least once. Not everything has a happy end._

 _I always enjoy reading your reviews, so keep going!_


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